Kitabı oku: «Shadow Hunt», sayfa 3

4

From where he was on the table, Rio could see Nick Costello and Victor Salerno on the far side of the game room. A call had come through a few minutes ago that had made the big boss very unhappy. After hitting the end button on his cell phone, Nick stood quietly for a minute, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Rio couldn’t hear what was said between the two men, but both turned in his direction, and he knew that what he’d experienced so far was about to seem like a fond memory. He watched as Nick removed his coat. Forcing himself to grin, Rio said, “Everything okay? You look upset.”

“Mr. Rio,” Nick said, “I’m running out of patience with you. You will eventually tell me what I want to know about the U.S. Marshals Service border routines, but we’re going to leave that for the moment and move on to a new subject.”

“Cajun cuisine?” he asked brightly.

Salerno stepped into the punch that slammed into Rio’s solar plexus, and the marshal felt his breath leave him in a rush. The room smelled of blood—his blood—and the cool, damp air of Costello’s game room stank to high heaven, but he forced himself to draw another breath. He coughed, breathed again, then made himself start to laugh.

“Is that all you’ve got, you little bootlicker? My grandmother hits harder than that.”

Salerno growled and started to wind up again, but Nick raised a hand and stopped him.

“The problem, Mr. Rio, is that my associate here doesn’t have the same level of imagination that I do. Sometimes, his heart just isn’t in it. He prefers a good fight or a straight kill, while my approach is more subtle. I like to take my time and really get know what makes people tick. It truly enhances the experience.”

Nick selected another blade from his implement tray. It was a double-edged, very thin tool that looked like something an angry surgeon might use. He held it up to the light and turned it back and forth. “A good blade is a thing of beauty, yes?” he asked.

Before Rio could form a smart-ass answer, Nick stepped forward and slipped the knife into his knee, driving it behind his kneecap and twisting it. Rio couldn’t help himself. He screamed in agony, and his vision filled with a reddish-brown haze.

Nick left the blade in place and waited for Rio to stop. When he did, the big boss said, “Now I think we can talk. Who is Marshal Cooper?”

He shook his head and his voice was weak as he said, “I don’t know any Cooper.” He could feel a thin trickle of blood running down his leg around the blade of the knife.

Nick placed a hand on the grip of the blade, not moving it, but the threat was there. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Rio. Who is Marshal Cooper? Who sent him here?” He put a slight amount of pressure on the handle of the blade and Rio groaned.

“I don’t know him!”

Salerno leaned in and slammed a fist down on his knee. “The fuck you don’t! Who did you tell that you were coming here? Someone knew you were here.”

The pain was so excruciating that Rio thought he might black out.

“Enough, Victor,” Nick snapped. Salerno backed away. Both men were obviously frustrated by something this guy Cooper had done.

“Marshal Rio,” Nick said, “we’re going to leave you for a while. I want you to think carefully until I return about what you’ll say to me when I come back. If you don’t answer my questions, then I’m going to…” His voice trailed off, and he shoved on the knife once more. Rio felt something give way in his knee, and he screamed again, knowing that he’d need surgery if he was ever going to walk again…if he lived.

“I’m going to make it hurt worse than this,” Nick finished. “Come on, Victor.”

“Why are we stopping, boss?” Salerno asked. “That Cooper fucked-up Tommy and Frank real good and left them in the trunk of their car!” He pointed at Rio. “And this guy knows something!”

“I believe he does, Victor,” Nick said. “But we can deal with Cooper on our own, and given a little time, I think Marshal Rio will come around.” He flicked the blade of the knife once more. “Besides, I’m leaving that there for him to think about.”

Catching his breath, Rio said, “You think you can just kidnap a federal agent and people won’t come looking for him? In another couple of days, this whole area will be covered with cops you haven’t bought.”

“Maybe,” Nick said, leaning in to whisper his reply. “But by then both you and Cooper will be dead, and we’ll be back in the shadows once more. So you want to think really hard about cooperating with me, Marshal.” He reached forward and twisted the blade one more time. “Because you can die easy or hard, and it doesn’t matter one bit to me.”

Rio bit back the scream and whispered his hate between his teeth. The edge of oblivion wasn’t far away. Rio wondered if there would be a time that it would overtake him and never let him come back.

“What’s that you’re saying?” Nick asked, leaning in a bit closer.

“Nick…”

“Yeah?”

Rio spit blood in his face. “Fuck you.”

Nick pulled away and took out a handkerchief to wipe off his face. “You’re a tough guy, all right, Marshall Rio. But even tough guys can be broken. I’ve seen tougher than you crying for their mommas.” He turned to Salerno and gestured for the steps. “Let’s go. When we come back, he either talks or you can feed him to the gators.”

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Bolan found himself across the street from the DA’s office once more. He sipped Turkish coffee and ignored the flirtatious waitress as he thought about what he’d learned the night before. The two thugs he’d taken care of outside Mosca’s weren’t willing to reveal much, but he’d gotten a name—Nick Costello—to go with the one he already had. Baldy had made it clear that Victor Salerno was the capo, but Costello was the big boss. He’d put both men in the trunk of their car as a message to Costello. By now, Salerno and Costello knew that Marshal Cooper meant business. Things were starting to heat up, but he wanted to deal with Smythe first.

People trying to kill him was part of the job, part of his life, and while it was about as personal as it could get, what really made Bolan angry was a man who wasn’t willing to do his own dirty work. Smythe was spineless, and worse, he was on the take. Bolan wanted to make sure he paid for his crimes, so he’d camped out at the DA’s office early, knowing Smythe would show eventually. There didn’t really seem to be a quiet time on the streets of New Orleans, but after the morning commute things settled into a routine lull. Shortly after nine, he saw Smythe’s car pull up and enter the parking garage, but the windows were darkened enough that Bolan couldn’t see the interior.

The weather wasn’t cooperating to be helpful, either. The oppressive humidity had turned into a light drizzle that made the surrounding morning gray more intense.

He waited until the car was gone from view, then crossed the street and slipped into the garage. Moving quickly, he reached the row where Smythe had parked and moved in. The car door started to open just as Bolan arrived, and he reached in and grabbed the man by the collar. A surprised shriek came from inside the car and Bolan let go. It wasn’t Smythe, but his sister behind the wheel. He shoved forward, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could scream for help. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

“Look lady,” Bolan whispered in her ear, “I haven’t been in New Orleans long enough to get used to the humidity, and people are already trying to kill me or have me killed, including your brother.” He shoved her backward and said, “Scoot over. You’re going to tell me what you know or your brother’s going to find you in the same condition that I left his goons in last night.”

“What…but I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she said, as soon as he’d moved his hand away from her mouth.

“The hell you don’t. Last night you were so itchy that you couldn’t even manage to hold still through dinner. Then conveniently you and your brother disappear right before I’m attacked in the parking lot. And I saw him taking off from the parking lot, so excuse me if I think you’re in this up to your eyeballs.”

“But I’m here looking for my brother!” Sandra protested. “I left last night right after he escorted me to my car, but I didn’t hear from him again and he never showed up at home.” The concern in her voice did not move Bolan. He’d dealt with women in the past who could conjure tears on a moment’s notice, and he suspected that Sandra had the acting abilities of any award show nominee.

“I can see you’re really concerned for him. Did any of this concern happen to come my way when you were setting me up?”

“I didn’t set you up,” she said. “Look, I knew Trenton was up to something, but I had no idea what. I only met him there because he said that’s where he was going to be.”

“And you know nothing, right?” Bolan said, the skepticism clear in his voice. “Then I guess you’re no use to me.” He reached for the Desert Eagle under his jacket.

“Wait!” she said. “I didn’t know anything about what he was doing last night, but I know other things that might help you. Trenton’s…he’s involved with the Mafia in some way. I don’t know how exactly. But they’ve said they’d kill him if he didn’t do what they said.”

Finally we’re getting somewhere, Bolan thought. “So what is it he does for them?”

“He makes sure that criminal cases against members of the Family don’t get prosecuted,” she said, hanging her head. “And they pay him. He can also make sure other cases are prosecuted or threatened to be prosecuted as leverage for the Family. His office fields a lot of the calls that would come from outside jurisdictions.”

“So when is the real DA coming back?”

“He’s supposedly been in D.C. for three months, but no one has seen or heard from him or his family. My guess is they are either dead or in hiding.”

“What did your brother tell you about last night?” he asked.

“Nothing! I swear!” she said. “Just that he was arranging a meeting of some kind. I stay out of everything. That’s the only way you stay alive in New Orleans. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. You may not like me, Marshal Cooper, but sometimes you just do what it takes to stay alive. If that means you look the other way when your gut is gnawing at you, then you look the other way. I don’t like it, but that’s it.” She tried to look away, but Bolan was not buying the tears or the distress. There was something about her that was still a little too cool and rehearsed.

“So why are you here?”

“Same as you, I guess—looking for my brother. Trying to save his life if he’s gotten himself in a fix. I thought I would see if I could find something in his office that would help me. I love my brother and I don’t want to see anything happen to him. There has to be some way I can help him.”

“Well, why don’t we go and look together?”

Bolan grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the car. Her foot slipped out of her heel as he was pulling her along, and he had to stop while she readjusted it. He was running out of patience and suspected that if he didn’t find Rio soon he would be out of time. They moved to the elevator, got in and rode it to the fifth floor, where the DA’s office was located. Before it opened, Bolan said, “Not a word or peep out of place while we’re here,” he said.

She nodded her agreement and followed him out of the elevator, then paused. “If you keep dragging me around, people are going to ask questions…or call the cops.”

“Do you really think that makes me nervous?”

“If it doesn’t, it should,” she said. “They’re all on the same side around here, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I don’t want to be on anyone’s radar—especially not theirs. This isn’t a safe town, not here or anywhere.”

“Fine,” he said, releasing her as they reached the entrance to the office. Bolan pushed her ahead of him, and she opened the door. They walked past Sally sitting at her desk in another low-cut dress, while she was desperately trying to hide the nail file and polish she was obviously using on her nails.

“Hey, Sally, my brother asked me to pick up a couple of things for him,” Sandra said. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead, hon, you know where everything is,” Sally said, then added, “But you tell your brother to call the next time he’s not going to be in the office. I was getting worried.”

“Will do,” she replied as they walked into the office. Bolan smiled and shut the door, then followed Sandra over to the desk, where he motioned for her to sit in the desk chair.

“Now,” he said, “why don’t you show me what it is you were so eager to find.”

“I don’t know what I thought I would find,” she said. “I just thought I might find… I don’t know, something that might tell me what’s really going on with Trenton.”

“Then you better start looking,” Bolan said. “And hurry up.”

5

After a pointless search of Smythe’s office, Sandra came across a reference on an advisement memo to Chief Lacroix about a dockside warehouse that had been under investigation. According to the memo, Smythe had convinced the police that it wasn’t worth looking into. As far as Bolan was concerned, that screamed it was worth looking into. He wrote down the address.

“Do you know how to get here?”

“Well, yeah,” Sandra replied.

“Good, we’re going.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Well, I don’t want you to stay. So who do you think is going to win that argument?” Bolan asked.

Traffic between the DA’s office and the docks wasn’t heavy, but it was still slow-going since the streets were slicked with rain. It took almost an hour to wind through the French Quarter and find a place to park close to the warehouse. Bolan might have left Sandra behind, but he was convinced she knew more than she was letting on, so he’d insisted she come along. She was obviously unhappy about it, but Bolan didn’t care. He intended on keeping her close until he figured out where Smythe had disappeared to, and more importantly, where this Nick Costello was hiding out. They drove around the last curve, and Bolan pulled the car over into a parking space near a garbage Dumpster. He put it in park, cut the engine and looked over at Sandra.

“This is your last opportunity to tell me what is going on,” he said. “If this is another setup or a trap of any kind, then I promise you that not only will I get out of it, but I’ll hold you personally responsible for everything that’s happened to me up to this point.” He shifted in his seat and captured her gaze.

She fidgeted but didn’t say anything.

“All right, let’s go.”

Bolan stepped out of the car and waited for Sandra to come and stand next to him. The area was quiet and they moved quickly down the side of the street. No one seemed to be watching them, and they reached the fenced area around the dock without incident.

The gate was open, and there was a small security shack with one guard. Bolan gestured for Sandra to remain quiet and waited for the guard to turn his back. Moving as swiftly and stealthily as a cat, Bolan got behind him, wrapped one strong arm around his throat and took him to the ground slowly, waiting until the man was unconscious. Then he stood up and gestured for Sandra to come closer. He moved the guard’s jacket aside and showed her the small MAC-10 underneath. “Unless he’s guarding Fort Knox, there’s no way a regular warehouse security guard needs that,” he said. “Come on.”

They moved closer to the edge of the warehouse. The main entry door was locked, and Bolan looked at the security keypad.

“How do you propose to get in, Marshal?” Sandra whispered. “Got a Jedi mind trick to open it?”

Bolan ignored the gibe. “Just need a little bit of luck,” he said, sliding a credit-card-sized object out of his wallet.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Magnetic scrambler,” he said. “Almost all electronic locks have a magnetic component. This little toy sends a series of pulses that disable a magnetic lock.”

“All electronic locks?”

“Not all of them,” he said. “There are sophisticated locks that don’t use magnetic codes, but anything like this, or hotel rooms, hospitals, even most airport initial access areas, this will work on. Saves time and beats having to call a locksmith on short notice.” Bolan slid the card into place, then waited a moment for the lock system to register it. He tapped a small raised portion on the card, and the scrambler immediately popped the lock. The soldier opened the door and put the card back into his wallet.

“Come on,” he said, slipping into the building and pulling his Desert Eagle free, as Sandra followed him into the dark warehouse.

Sandra looked down as they walked in, folded her arms across her chest and shivered from the change in temperature.

They main floor was almost completely filled with crates stacked end to end, and high enough to reach well above Bolan’s head. Narrow walkways were left between the rows of crates, and he kept his back against the nearest stack, hoping for at least some protection in the event of an ambush. The warehouse wasn’t well lit, but there was enough light to see the markings on the side of the containers. He stopped to look at the stamped markings. Picking one at random, he saw that it bore a FEMA insignia and a label that read Interior Plumbing, Copper Lines. The next one was PVC pipes. Bolan realized that the entire warehouse was filled with supplies sent to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina to help the city rebuild—supplies that had been stolen and were likely being sold off or used in construction without cost.

Apparently, whoever was running the new crime family in New Orleans had decided that the hurricane was an opportunity to make money, without the risks of money laundering, drug smuggling or prostitution.

“FEMA,” he said quietly to Sandra.

“So?” she asked. “After Katrina, the whole city was filled with construction supplies.”

“Well, what the hell are they all doing here now?” Bolan asked.

“There are a lot of FEMA contractors. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are still a lot of repairs that need to be done. What is it you think we’re going to find here?”

“I think this is part of it,” Bolan said. “Federal supplies shouldn’t have come in this way, and they are usually utilized far faster than this. I think someone has been making money off hurricane reconstruction.” He glared at her. “I don’t suppose you know who has most of the reconstruction contracts in the city, do you?”

“Trenton told me it was Costello Construction,” she said. “But this warehouse isn’t in their name.”

“No, it’s not,” Bolan said, remembering the painted lettering on the side of the building as they came in. “A subsidiary then.”

“I could make a guess,” she replied, “but you seem to like finding answers out all on your own. You don’t trust anything I say, so why should I bother to try and answer any of your questions?”

“Look, Sandra, I’m not unreasonable, but I’m not stupid. I make my living by not getting killed, and I’m not about to start making mistakes now.”

Bolan turned his attention to a set of crates behind Sandra. If he hadn’t spent so much time in the Middle East, it likely wouldn’t have jumped out at him, but he recognized the embossed stamping below the FEMA lettering on one of the crates. He moved forward, trying to remember the Hebrew he’d learned in the past and coming up short. Still the one word he did recognize was unmistakable—“rifle.”

Bolan looked around and saw a forklift at the end of the aisle. He grabbed Sandra’s hand and pulled her to it. She jerked her hand away.

“I’m getting real tired of you manhandling me. Where are we going now?”

“I need to see what’s in that crate,” he said, pointing to the one at the top of the stack.

“So go look, you don’t need me in that contraption. What am I going to do, sit on your lap?”

Bolan looked at the one seat the forklift had and pointed at her.

“If you move, I will shoot you, no warning. Got it?”

She threw up her hands and backed up against a set of crates.

“I’ll be standing right here. I’m as curious as you are.”

Bolan climbed onto the forklift. He moved it into position and restacked the crates that had been hiding his target. He didn’t bother with a crowbar to open the package. He was pretty sure he knew what was inside. He put the forklift in reverse and lowered the forks, shifted back into drive and drove the forks into the box, knocking it off the other side.

“Holy Jesus! Do you know anything about being inconspicuous?”

“I figure that since people are already trying to kill me, inconspicuous is really overrated.”

Bolan cut the engine and jumped off of the forklift. They both ran around to the other side of the crates to see what prize he had freed.

The crate had smashed open when it hit the concrete floor, revealing a dozen or more Israeli assault rifles, Tavors from the look of them.

“Let me guess,” Bolan asked her. “More reconstruction supplies?”

“Hardly,” she said. “These have to belong to Victor Salerno. He works for Costello. I think we better get out of here. These aren’t the kind of guys that you want mad at you.”

“Salerno,” he said. “Costello’s enforcer? Got a brother named Tony?”

“I am,” a voice said, echoing in the warehouse. “And I’ve got a brother named Tony.”

“Seems he’s gotten into a bit of trouble with the police,” Bolan called out, shoving Sandra out of the way, even as gunfire erupted around them. He pulled out the Desert Eagle but held off firing, knowing that with all the flashes, finding a target took more patience. “Stay here and stay down,” he snapped at her.

He moved quickly between the rows of crates. The warehouse was so packed that some rows were difficult to move through.

“Every warehouse has rats,” Salerno called out. “You’ve just got to flush them out and kill them.”

The Executioner kept his silence, knowing that to reply would give away his position. At the same time, because of Salerno’s need for discourse, he knew that the man was above him, up near the offices. Bolan slipped around another stack of crates and waited.

“Lou, turn on the lights,” Salerno said.

Bolan fired immediately, the Desert Eagle sounding like a cannon in the dark. The overhead fluorescents came on just in time for him to see Salerno topple over, yelling in pain. It hadn’t been a kill shot, but a .44-caliber round in the shoulder was pretty attention getting all on its own.

“Your brother’s dead, Victor,” Bolan called. “Guess who’s next?” He immediately changed position, running down a long, narrow row of crates.

Gunfire followed his steps, and he knew that the shooters were up on the catwalks above. He found a shadowed area and paused, looking for a path back to the door, where he’d seen the stairs going up to the catwalk when they came in.

“Marshal,” Sandra whispered, coming up behind him.

Bolan spun and nearly put a round in her. “I told you to stay put,” he said. “Did you think they wouldn’t shoot you, too?”

She shook her head. “I swear this wasn’t a setup,” she said. “Follow me and we can get out of here.”

“How do you know your way around here?”

“I’ve been here with Trenton before. He was looking at a FEMA contract and trying to get a mess straightened out. Really, we’re not all as bad as you think.”

“What makes you think I want to get out?” Bolan asked. “I want to get up there.” He gestured overhead.

“Fine,” she said. “The stairs are by the door anyway.” She turned and started moving down one of the narrow rows.

Though he still doubted her, Bolan felt like his choices were limited. Letting Sandra go off by herself was probably the best choice, since he still thought she knew more than she was saying. On the other hand, following her was likely to end up with him getting killed. “Perfect,” he said.

He turned to follow her, waiting for another round of gunfire. The silence was almost as bad, and he wondered how many men were up there. At least three or four more men judging by the shots fired. But Salerno was down, at least for the day, and maybe longer. Sandra turned down another row and Bolan followed, glancing back and behind, to make sure no one was sighting in.

In front of him, the row of crates widened into a open area. Sandra had come to a halt in midstride as several men came forward pointing their weapons. “Don’t move,” one of them said. He was an obese man who was sweating profusely.

Sandra turned to look back at Bolan, and the fat man said, “I mean it.” She froze and he laughed.

Bolan took a few steps forward. “You don’t need her,” he said. “It’s me you want.”

“You’re right,” he replied. “I didn’t mean you, you dumb broad. She’s Victor’s girl, so I’ll let him decide what to do with her. It was you I meant.”

Bolan shook his head disgustedly as Sandra turned and began backing away from him. “Is Vic okay?” she asked.

“He’ll live,” the man said. “Unlike your friend the marshal here.”

Bolan didn’t reply, just looked and waited for his opening. It was coming, and he tensed, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“I knew I should have left you behind,” he said to Sandra. “You’ve been in it from the beginning. You know they probably still killed your brother, right?”

“I just help when Vic needs me,” she said.

“And what about your brother?”

“My brother is none of your business.”

He ignored her. “What’s your story, tough guy?” Bolan asked the fat man. “Got a name?”

“Several, but none you’d have heard. I work for Victor.”

Bolan sneered. “I can’t call you late for dinner, that’s obvious.”

The man laughed. “You’re funny, Cooper. A real comedian. You won’t be laughing so much when Mr. Costello gets done with you. He likes to play with his new arrivals. Plus, I figure he’s got to be tired of that other guy anyway.”

“There’s not much to laugh about where Mr. Costello is concerned,” Bolan replied. “Killing is a serious business, and I plan to work extra hard to make sure he’s bankrupt. You should watch how much fun you’re having with the ‘other guy,’ it’s likely to come back and bite you in the ass.”

A soft step from behind was all the warning he received, and Bolan tried to turn, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The heavy rubber mallet slammed into the side of his head, and he saw stars as he went down. Standing over him was Salerno, blood still flowing from the graze on his shoulder. Bolan tried to lever himself back up, but couldn’t manage to find his feet.

“You’re done, tough guy,” Salerno said, raising the mallet.

Dazed, Bolan raised a hand to block it, but never saw the fat man’s booted foot as it smashed into his temple. The world went dark.